


His Own

by emmykay



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cunnilingus, Dominance, Dubious Consent, F/M, Female Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Jealousy, Possessive Behavior, Rule 63, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 03:19:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmykay/pseuds/emmykay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin Oakenshield makes a claim.  Girl!Bilbo.  Thorin/Bilbo.  Possessive Thorin.  Serious warning for dubcon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Own

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leupagus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leupagus/gifts).



> Thinking about Leupagus' [version of Thorin](http://leupagus.tumblr.com/post/71898075549/got-any-particular-prompts-for-pooorn). I was trying for possessive with a handful of creep and sexual jealousy. Unbeta'd.
> 
> Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me. This story is written without permission and for personal/fan/nonprofit entertainment purposes only.
> 
> * * *

A presence, heavy, solid and warm, leans over her shoulder. Bilbo doesn’t have to turn her head to know who it was. A deep voice rumbles in her ear, “Are you all right?”

”I’m - ” she swallows, trying to banish the sudden dryness in her throat. His odor, a darkly musky tang, creeps into her awareness. “I’m fine.”

"You will tell me if you are not." It is an order.

She nods, not turning her head, knowing he is still there, just over her shoulder. If she turned her head, her ear would brush against his hair, his braids, his beard, his lips.

She feels his breath against the side of her neck. One breath. Two breaths. Three. She hears a deep inhale, as if to speak. Then, she feels coolness as he moves back and away, hears his retreat. She gasps, unaware she hadn’t inhaled until then.

There has been an accumulation over the past months of touches on her arm, her shoulder; on the small of her back she has felt his wide palm. Today, very deliberately, on the bare skin of her hand and then a quick circling up and around her wrist after he had helped her over a particularly steep incline. She has an idea of what this is about. She has had some acquaintance with male interest. Not for some years has she had someone reach for her without permission. That she had turned away with a scornful look and a sharp remark.

Thorin’s touches aren’t precisely intrusive. But she is aware of each one. His hands are large and deeply scarred; the palms heavily calloused, the fingers thick, the knuckles even thicker. She doesn’t know if she wants him to stop. Even if she did, she can’t imagine a word, however harsh, would be sufficient.

He scowls at the others in their party should they make the mistake of offering anything but the simplest and most common of courtesies. For all the tacility amongst the dwarves and the acknowledgement of Thorin himself that Bilbo is a valuable member of their party, the other dwarves barely approach her. Even Thorin doesn’t touch her very much.

She has caught him looking at her. She always looks away first.

They stop their attempts to find the secret entrance of Erebor for the night, settling themselves in a hollow protected by a large outcrop of stone.

She sits down on the ground near Dwalin, tucking her skirts around her legs. Dwalin looks at her, pleased and concerned, as if she were a bird just fallen out of the nest. She smiles at him. “Lass,” he says, but stops when Thorin squats between the two of them, knees spread wide.

Thorin glares until Dwalin says, soft, “Tis your business, Thorin, but best be settled soonest.”

"I will do as I see fit," Thorin growls. They both glance at her.

Bilbo stares at the ground, hoping they didn’t see her looking at them. She can feel Thorin’s eyes upon her.

"You are right, though, Dwalin, about one thing." Thorin’s voice is dark as pitch. "Tis my business and mine alone."

Dwalin sighs. "Have a care."

Thorin says nothing.

Dwalin gets up, shaking his head, and joins a few others in their circle. They look towards her and Thorin, and then they turn away.

"Come here," Thorin says.

Bilbo looks up. He hasn't moved.

"You." He gestures to the space between his knees.

She freezes.

"Come here," he repeats. He gestures again.

Slowly, she rises and moves to the front of him, a few handsbreadth separates them. None of the other dwarves even glance in their direction, even though they are only steps away.

"Get down."

She blinks a few times.

"Get down." He is impatient at her continued immobility. He gestures yet again. "Here."

She slowly drops, as if in a curtsey, eyes always on his. He growls and rises swiftly. He almost seems to be rising from the center of the earth, he is so much bigger than she is. Too soon he is on his feet. He grabs her shoulder, turns her about and pushes down. She falls roughly on her knees, noisily inhaling at the small impact. He keeps pushing, she collapses to sit on one buttock, her legs folded to the opposite side.

He kneels down behind her, tipping her head forward. She feels the press of his knees on either side of her hips, his belt buckle against her back. Her breath stutters. Something releases at the back of her head and a wave of her hair falls by the side of her cheeks. She sees the edge of a small dark-colored comb. There is a light, even scraping along the top of her scalp, at her temples, over her ears. It is not unpleasurable. She closes her eyes. No one else has touched her hair in years.

A quick tug pulls from the middle of the top of her head, causing her eyes to pop open. "Your hair is a rat's nest," Thorin says, working the snarls out. "It's nothing special. The color of dirt." Her eyes tear up as the tugging continues. "But -" she feels his breath hot against her ear, "- there are unexpected threads of gold."

He leans back. His hands, warm and rough, are at the nape of her neck, gathering her hair into a tail that falls to the middle of her back. She imagines the spill of dark hair in one massive hand, the comb in the other, moving through the strands, creating order from its tangles. There are more tugs, more scraping. She moves in response to his movements, back and forth, side to side, his thighs press against her when he reaches. "Sit still." It feels like he is working close to the scalp, but more tightly than she has ever done to herself.

There is a quick silver flash in the corner of her right eye and she flinches, hard, before she can stop herself. "Sit _still._ " She hears the sound of a blade tearing through fabric, feels a few more tugs.

"There," he says. "Done." He drops the ends of two braids over her shoulders.

She looks down. His fingers hover over the exposed edge of her clavicle at the neck of her chemise. One braid is done up with her old hair tie. The other braid is tied up with a taut knot of cloth. She knows that fabric - it's the edging from his undershirt. 

"I will wait until we take back the halls of Erebor to claim you," he says, pressing his face against her hair. Her heart twists in her chest, stopping her from speaking.

He hoists himself up and steps away from her. The group parts to allow him in, Dwalin and Balin looking back at her, furtively.

Bilbo reaches up with both hands and finds that he has done up her hair in twinned plaits that twist their way back and downward from her temples. Her back feels chilly. She pulls at the end of her sleeve and draws it up to her face to dab at the moisture still collecting in the corners of her eyes.

* * *

"Who is Embla?" Kili asks, idly. Another day of searching the Mountain for the secret door has come to naught and they are sitting around the campfire trying not to speak of their failure.

Balin says, "Have some respect."

"All I did was ask - "

"Best not ask Thorin," Oin says, his face grim.

"Best not to ask me what?" Thorin says, climbing into view.

"Who is Embla?" Fili asks. "Mother said that when we return, she would not receive Embla, nor any of her kin."

Thorin stares at his nephews. They wither under his regard.

Bilbo pipes up. "Who is Embla?"

Thorin makes a sound deep in his throat. He squints at Bilbo. 

Balin says, "Embla Broadbeam. She was a dwarf princess of Onar's line. They were betrothed as children."

"She _was_?" Bilbo asks. "Is she dead?"

Balin says, "No," at the same time Thorin says, "When the kingdom was lost, I released her from her father's promise."

Dwalin says, "She married."

Bofur comments, "She is rumored to be a great beauty."

"I have never met her," Thorin says. "She is nothing to me." 

Bilbo offers, "I was betrothed once."

"You were?" Kili squeaks. He and Fili look at each other.

"I was."

"I did not know that," Thorin says, frowning.

"It was years ago." Bilbo doesn't know why she's conciliatory.

"Why didn't you marry?" Fili asks.

"I recognized early that we would not suit. He seemed to agree, and before a fortnight passed, he was betrothed to my best friend." Bilbo corrects herself. "My former best friend. He was courting her at the same time he was walking out with me." 

"He has no honor!" Kili gasps.

"Do you miss him?" Fili asks.

Bilbo gives a little shrug. "I expect he missed the idea of my money more than he missed me. I suppose it says something about me that I missed her more than I missed him. And the children they have together." She laughs a little, it comes out sadder than she expected.

* * *

Something wakes her up. Bilbo is alert instantly - this journey has made her value the senses she was born with in a way no other trial in her life has. Without too much overt movement, she looks around. She freezes when she sees that Thorin is sitting up, staring at her. Trying not to relay her surprise, she makes a small show of stretching and yawning.

"Has he seen you like this?" he whispers.

She blinks. "What?"

"Has the one you were betrothed to seen you like this?" He is looking at the full curves of her body under the thin blanket. 

She realizes that she had sprawled in the unseasonable heat of the early fall night while sleeping. Her nerves stretch as he looks at her, his expression similar to one she had seen on a starving wolf. He watches intently as she draws a bared leg back under the cover. "No." 

"He was not worthy of you," he says.

"No," she whispers back. "Of course not." 

"You deserve to become a queen."

She shakes her head. "I'm just a hobbit. We don't -"

"Yes," he insists. "Once I have the Arkenstone, you will be honored as you deserve." 

"I don't - "

"Even though I wait, do not believe, for a single moment, that I am not thinking of you," Thorin says. "You and the Arkenstone are both possessions fit only for a king."

* * *

When Bilbo finds the Arkenstone, she is unprepared for its beauty, however floridly Thorin has described it. The stone drew to itself whatever faint light was available and reflected it back in a kaleidoscope of colors a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand times brighter than the source. The astonishing thing about the Arkenstone is that it is not perfect - even though it was cut and polished by the most expert of jewelers, it still retains the a tiny blemish deep in its center, the merest shadow visible only when held closest to the eye. The stone is mesmerizing, drawing the viewer ever deeper into its multi-faceted, flawed heart.

Her heart pounding, she tucks it away under the pile of rags she uses as a pillow. She checks the stone every night before going to sleep. She feels like she's getting away with something, but she is nervous all the same. She knows she is going to have to do something, and soon. 

This night, she assures herself the stone is still on her bed and then gets ready for sleep, undressing down to her shift.

She hears Balin and Thorin, their voices carrying down the empty hall. 

"You don't need to stand guard tonight," Thorin says.

"I don't know - " Balin begins.

"My business," Thorin reminds him. "Tell the others they are not to come by the rest of the night."

She hears Balin's gusty sigh and then his footsteps as he walks away. Panicked, she throws the pile of rags under the bed, along with her clothes and mail.

"Bilbo?" Thorin has opened the door and is standing in doorway of the small room she had claimed as her own. 

She startles and rises, tucking a few loose strands behind her ear. 

He steps in without her leave. He, too, seems ready for sleep, dressed only in his shirt and breeches. Seeing him like this, without his coat and boots, there should be less of him. Instead, she is more aware of him than ever, the width of his shoulders, the mass of his arms and legs.

"I would have a word with you," he says.

She nods. She approaches the door, but he is in the way. There is no other exit. "If you would," she says.

He doesn't move. "I have forgotten what I was saying," he says. "You make me forget."

"The siege is getting to everyone. Perhaps you would remember better outside?" she says with false bravado.

He stares at her intently. Bilbo steps to the side, trying to get around Thorin. He predicts her move and blocks her, staring down at her. 

Thorin is not an callow youth from the Shire ready to woo a young lass under the summer moon. And it has been a long time since she was that lass, if she had ever been. He is like nothing else she has ever known. And she knew this moment was coming.

This time, she doesn't look away. She can't. She is afraid of what will happen should she stop paying attention. This is a moment that seems to require every bit of her attention. She wants to stand her ground. She wants to run away, very badly. Because despite all of her recent adventures and the Took blood in her veins, she is still a bit of a coward.

"I thought you were going to wait," she says, trying to buy time. 

"I said until we have taken Erebor. And we have," he says. 

"But you don't have the Arkenstone in hand."

"What if I never find the Arkenstone? I will still have you."

"But - " she looks over his shoulder. She doesn't know why. There is nobody out there who can help her. "Please. Don't. At least, close the door."

He walks toward her, looking angry. "How can you do this to me?" he snarls. "I broke a betrothal with a great beauty, threw away connections to a mighty family with fewer regrets than I would have if I never had you." Her back hits the wall. He keeps going forward, until he is pressed up against her. "I have worked for years to get to this point. You make me forget my vows to my men and my family, my honor. How can someone so small and soft be so powerful?"

He is right. She is small and soft with little to commend her to a king, and yet she has drawn him here, with his anger and desperation and desire. Her heart starts to thump in a different way.

"Am I so weak?" he asks. "Do I need to return Erebor to its rightful place to have you by my side? What if I cannot?"

"No. Don't - " She reaches forward, places her hands on his face. He shudders at her touch. Such power in him. Seeing him to react to her touch is intoxicating. She shouldn't have done that. She is desperately striving for reason. "Once I have returned to the Shire -"

"You shall not go. You are mine."

"It's nothing, I'm nothing, it's not what you think - " She attempts to calm the thundering of her heart. She sees Thorin looking at her, his eyes at the pulse hammering in her throat. 

She feels his hands on her hips. She quivers, and feels his grip tighten. 

"Bilbo," he says. "Bilbo, I need you."

She closes her eyes. She opens them, he is looking at her, his eyes so blue that it hurts. 

"I cannot beg, Bilbo."

She turns her head to the side, not quite a nod, not quite a shake. 

He bends his face downward into her neck, she feels the prickle of his beard and the softness of his lips against her sternum. His hands are pulling up the tails of her chemise, thick fingers sliding along the soft skin of her bare thighs, moving upwards. 

She is shaking. She's not ready. She doesn't know if she wants this. It's too late. He reaches her slit, gently fingering her open, slipping in and rubbing across her clitoris and she gulps. His movement slows, but doesn't stop, and shortly, there is relief when she feels herself getting increasingly slick. He's breathing rapidly, hot air against her cheek, and then, as he reaches lower, against her breasts and nipples. He has no trouble sliding the fingers of one hand down her slit, spreading her, the lubrication just pouring out of her. She spreads her legs wider; she can't help it. 

"I could smell you from across the room. You don't know what it's like to be able to see you, scent you and not touch," he groans.

Two fingers press across her clitoris, and she feels like she's just tightening inside, her stomach cramping harder and harder. She's trying to somehow get closer, _get more_ , clutching his arm and the soft material of his shirt, and rocking her hips back and forth. He nudges the tip of a enormous finger inside her, she shudders. 

"Has he seen you like this?' Thorin asks, urgent, angry. 

"No," Bilbo gasps, her voice whining at the end. 

"Has anyone ever touched you like this?"

"No," she says, shaking her head. She would disavow her own existence, if only he would keep moving. "Never. No one. Only you."

"Good." He slowly slides in a whole digit, and then another, still steadily pressing his palm against her clitoris. 

"Please," she cries, twisting her hips, hands tearing at his clothing. Her body wants something, desperately. She doesn't know what it is.

"Now," he commands, his hand thrusting deeply inside and against her at the same time.

She throws her head back, trying and failing to choke down her sobs as she flies apart. 

She's trembling when she comes back to herself, still feeling small aftershocks all over her body when she realizes her clothes are in a disarray; the top of her chemise is torn open with her breasts falling out, the hem damp from her orgasm.

He slides his fingers from her, then picks her up and carries her to the bed. She watches as he unbuttons his trousers, standing at the edge of the bed. In the faint light, she sees his massive erection rising from a bush of dark hair. She quails, unable to imagine that inside of her. He pulls her to the edge of the bed, grips her hips and lifts her and settles her so the entirety of her slit is pressed up against his cock. He rocks a bit, sliding his cock against her wetness. He shudders and says, worshipfully, "So fucking wet. Just dripping. I knew you'd be like this." He lowers his head and sucks on her breast. 

He strokes himself against her, then he throws his hips back and then forward, the tip of his cock pressing against her opening. He rocks back again and using his hand, guides himself into her, slowly. She feels herself stretching. "No," she says, shaking her head. "I can't - "

"Yes," he says, sliding out and nudging forward again. "Yes. Yes."

"I - " her voice catches. There is a burning, growing ache between her legs now.

"So good," he breathes. "So tight and hot."

She closes her eyes. "Stop," she says, her voice weak, "hurts. Too big."

He pauses a moment, panting. He pulls out, leaving her empty, aching. He kneels down, bends his head, heated breath against her nether lips. His beard rubs against her inner thighs. "What - " she manages, and then he licks his way up to her clitoris, sucking on her aching flesh. She sits upright, shaking so hard she thinks she's going to rip apart. "No - why - " Her legs tighten around his head, she pulls great fistfuls of his hair, unable to voice or even put coherence to her outrage when the flood of sensation smashes into her again, causing her to shriek in pleasure.

She slumps, and he sits back. In the faint light, she can see his small smirk. Her relief is short-lived when she sees him handle his cock, pulling on it to full erection. He positions himself and thrusts forward, this time harder and faster, his hands tightening on her. This time, she's slicker, her cunt more open. He pushes until she cries out, unable to take any more of him. She can't help writhing, trying to make the adjustment to all this length and girth easier. He withdraws and thrusts forward again, deeper. And again. Still deeper, so deep that she thinks he must be pushing at the very limits of her body. The burning ache subsides, replaced with a tight ease. He pumps away at her, grunting, "Mine. Mine. All mine." 

He roars after a final thrust, and then he goes still. She can feel his body pulsing as it empties into hers. After a moment, he pulls out and lays by her side, breathing hard. She tries to get up, and is startled by the gush of fluids that leave her body. He reaches out and pulls her toward him, uncaring of the damp on the sheets. "You will stay," he demands.

He falls asleep quickly, one arm wrapped around her. 

Bilbo gets up carefully, trying not to jar Thorin awake. She winces at the tenderness in her body, the scrapes against her skin, as she quietly gathers up her boots, clothes, mail, and pillow. She dresses outside of the room, certain there will be no one else there. She reaches inside her jacket pocket, checks that the ring is still secure. She makes her way to the outer wall of Erebor, carrying away the Heart of the Mountain, Thorin's greatest treasure.

**Author's Note:**

> I took whatever story elements this story might exhibit from the Hobbit novel, but the descriptions of Thorin and the Bilbo/Thorin relationship is largely based on the the first Peter Jackson movie. (Haven't seen the second as of this posting.)
> 
> Embla and Onar's names were chosen at random from the first poetic Edda. 
> 
> The Arkenstone is supposed to be flawless, but I wanted something symbolic of Thorin's possessiveness. (Literary license, etc.)


End file.
